


A Note Infallible

by fairwinds09



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Gaby is a BAMF, bugged conversations legitimately are the best, but really, honeypot mission, if only solo would stop needling him about it, my poor jealous illya
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-09-27 17:30:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10036298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairwinds09/pseuds/fairwinds09
Summary: It was never supposed to be this complicated. But when Waverly assigns the three of them to a honeypot mission in Vienna, past and present collide with explosive repercussions.





	1. Ante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is borrowed from Shakespeare, _The Winter's Tale_. 
> 
> Is whispering nothing?  
>  Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses?  
> Kissing with inside lip? stopping the career  
> Of laughing with a sigh?--a note infallible  
> Of breaking honesty...

_U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters – London  
Waverly_

“No.” 

It comes out harsh, grating, probably more so than he intended. Still, he clearly has no intention of taking it back. 

“Kuryakin.” Waverly’s voice is calm, as always, but there’s a note in it that slides dangerously close to patronizing. “I’m not sure you clearly understand—”

The Russian cuts him off with a sharp gesture. “I understand everything,” he says, coldly, and Waverly can tell he is trying his very best to tamp down the sudden spike of rage before everything goes red and hazy. He cannot afford to destroy his boss’s office, even now. 

Waverly leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers together in a thoughtful sort of pose. 

“I realize that you have…feelings for her,” he begins, carefully, but then stops and just watches as his borrowed KGB attack dog, seemingly inarticulate, paces wildly from the desk to the window and back again. He’s suddenly very glad that he decided to have this conversation in private. God only knows what Solo and Gaby would have done were they present.

Kuryakin makes another circuit, his enormous strides shortening the distance by half, and then stops at the edge of Waverly’s desk, fists clenched tightly, breathing like he’s just run a marathon. 

“You cannot ask this of her!” he spits, apparently capable of speaking again. Waverly is not sure whether or not this should be considered an improvement. 

“It's not what you think,” he explains in the most rational tone of voice he can muster. Dear God, but he had not expected this sort of mess when he’d started out with the three of them, his little fledgling team of agents. If anything, he’d vaguely anticipated that Solo would try to seduce fierce, lovely little Gaby—but who in his right mind would have thought that it would be Kuryakin, that the KGB’s best would have fallen for an East German defector turned British spy? It boggles the imagination.

“Kuryakin,” he tries again, infusing his voice with the sort of note he reserves for babies and wounded animals, “please, listen to me. And, for God’s sake, sit down.”

Illya is shaking, he realizes, all of that corded muscle tensed and shivering, his jaw working madly. Somehow, he still manages to grit out something furious in Russian; Waverly is more than fluent, but whatever was just said was too garbled for him to make out.

“What was that again?” he asks, pleasantly, and sighs as Illya’s hand closes around the corner of his desk. It is English oak, over one hundred years old, and he’s quite fond of it. 

“I said,” Illya hisses through his teeth, in English, “that I will not let you treat her like—like prostitute! KGB, perhaps, would make her do this. But here—”

Waverly’s jaw tenses. Of course a man like Oleg Kuznetsov would do such things. Still, he has the odd suspicion that somehow the KGB’s finest agent was not heavily involved in those sorts of missions. He has absolutely no idea how it happened (no one really does), but Kuryakin has managed to hang on to a very Soviet sort of decency, despite his rise through the top ranks of the KGB. Waverly does not know, and does not want to know, what the man has seen or done in the course of his meteoric career, but it is abundantly clear that Kuryakin does not want any part of that life touching his partners, and certainly not Agent Teller. (Especially not Agent Teller.)

“That’s as may be,” he points out in response to Kuryakin’s accusation, “but I would like to call to your attention the fact that I am not, in fact, treating Miss Teller like a prostitute. I would never do such a thing.” (This is perfectly true.)

Unfortunately, it does not have the intended effect on Kuryakin, who shifts furiously in place and clenches the corner of the desk hard enough to produce a distinctly audible crack. Waverly winces. 

“What else would you call it?” his agent growls, and if he were a different sort of man, Waverly would think about quaking right about now. 

“It’s colloquially known as a honeypot mission,” he offers, overly cordial, and Kuryakin snorts, nostrils flaring dangerously. 

“I know this,” he snaps. “But what you ask of her…it is more than honeypot. To flirt, to smile, even to kiss—that is honeypot. This—this is something else. Something more.”

Waverly takes in a deep breath through his nose and tries to hold together the frayed edges of his patience. 

“I assure you, I have not asked Agent Teller to sleep with the mark on this mission,” he says, bluntly. It’s hardly his usual style, but then this is hardly a usual situation. “I have never directly asked an agent of either sex to do so. However, once I had explained the situation to her, she voluntarily offered to establish a romantic relationship with Karl Müller in order to gain access to the documents we need.” 

He is about to explain the situation further, but stops when he notices his agent’s frozen posture. For a moment, he isn’t certain that Kuryakin is breathing. 

“She…offered?” Kuryakin croaks, and for a moment, Waverly feels a flash of unwelcome sympathy. 

“I’m afraid so, yes,” he says smoothly, pretending as if he hasn’t noticed the way the other man’s eyes cloud for a moment, the convulsive swallow as he fights for control. 

“I—I apologize,” his agent says after a long moment; his voice is gritty and strained. “I did not understand situation. Is not my place.”

Waverly inclines his head, at once accepting the apology and acknowledging its necessity.

“Certainly,” he murmurs, urbane and faultlessly well-mannered. “So—we’re clear on the details of the mission, then? You will provide surveillance and backup, with Agent Solo’s assistance. Miss Teller, of course, will be making an effort to become…intimate with the mark.”

It’s a dirty blow and he knows it, but the last fifteen minutes have not been enjoyable, and he finds that he is just petty enough to enjoy seeing Kuryakin flinch. It’s barely discernible—a tic in his jaw, the faint tap of a finger against his trouser leg, but Waverly finds it gratifying nonetheless. 

“Understood,” Kuryakin manages, although he sounds as if he just swallowed a handful of nails. “I should go—I must…prepare for mission.” It’s hardly his place to dismiss himself, but Waverly finds that he a) has no use for senseless formalities, and b) cannot bring himself to push the man too far past his limits. 

“Very well,” he says, pleasantly enough. He waits until his agent is almost out the door before he turns, one finger raised imperiously. 

“Oh—Kuryakin?” The broad shoulders tense, and the Russian turns to face him, face set like granite. “Do manage to keep that temper of yours in check. Wouldn’t want one of your…outbursts to jeopardize the mission, would we?”

He really thinks that the man is about to come of out of his skin with incandescent rage, but Kuryakin manages to hold himself together, even if it’s by the thinnest of threads. 

“Understood,” he croaks, and Waverly nods. The sound of heavy booted feet echoes down the corridor as he stands to shut the door. 

Bloody hell, but this has the potential to be a disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a long time since I've written for this fandom (or any fandom). A _long_ time. But, at least for the time being, it's wonderful to be back! I promise that someday I'm going to update my WIPs. But I've been playing around with this story for a while, and I'm about ready to see what y'all think. 
> 
> This fits in the same arc/universe as Trifles, Light as Air, although the two are not directly connected. I've always wanted to write a honeypot fic for Gaby, one where Illya has to deal with the jealousy and conflicting emotions that arise from watching her with another man. It's hardly a new concept for the fandom, but it's such a delightful idea to play with that I decided to join the fun. Poor Illya--constantly abused for the sake of our literary pleasure. ;)


	2. Post

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby makes her first move. Solo runs comms. 
> 
> Illya is in hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kudos and the lovely comments! (I shall go back and respond to you soon, but I thought you'd prefer another chapter first.) This one is also quite short, but the next one I'm working on is a bit longer and more drawn out. 
> 
> For future reference, I will be switching points of view periodically throughout, although not necessarily in any sort of pattern. Location and narrator will be specified at the beginning of each chapter. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_Vienna  
Kuryakin_

This is hell, he thinks. Dante, Milton—they knew nothing. (What would Italians and the English know about suffering?) This, to crouch on a cold rooftop and watch the woman he secretly loves prepare to seduce another man—this is hell, infernos and fallen angels be damned.

At the moment, hell primarily involves being positioned across the street, watching through the high-powered scope of his rifle as Gaby prepares to accidentally bump into their target. If he shifts a few centimeters to his left, he can see Müller, hovering around the edge of the lunch crowd spilling out of the little café. The man is utterly nondescript—mousy brown hair, medium height, a little soft around the torso, so bland as to be overlooked by someone standing directly next to him. He looks the perfect government drone, Illya thinks viciously, boring and staid and certainly not anyone who could remotely interest a woman as incredible as Gaby. 

Suddenly he picks up on movement at the corner of his field of vision—the bright cherry red of her coat and the sheen of silk-stockinged legs. She’s about to make her move. Nerves humming, he tenses, fingers hovering over the trigger of his Dragunov. The sniper rifle is newly issued, gleaming and beautiful, with a range of nearly eight hundred meters. It’s overkill, really, more than enough to take out a stodgy government clerk, but he doesn’t like to take chances—especially not with Gaby. 

He sees her walking, tracks her through the rifle’s sight, and…yes, there it is—so quick, so effortless that, if he didn’t know better, he’d think it really was an accident. She stumbles, one ankle twisting under her, and throws her arms out in a desperate attempt to regain her balance. The paper cup of coffee in her hand goes flying in a smooth arc, and, just as she’s about to fall, she snatches at the lapels of Müller’s jacket, fingers digging in. It’s perfectly done, every bit of it, and he feels an unwilling twist of pride at her skill. 

Müller grabs her awkwardly, one hand closing around her arm, the other grasping clumsily at her waist, but it’s enough to break the fall. She lets the forward momentum carry her farther into his arms, plasters herself against him so that he can feel the delicate curves hidden under her coat, and then shakily pulls herself away. He can see her apologizing, small fingers brushing at Müller’s wrinkled jacket, cheeks pink with feigned embarrassment. Oh, but she’s good, he thinks. The man is instantly overwhelmed—with the powerful telescope at his disposal, Illya can see the flush along his cheekbones and the edge of his collar, can almost see his pupils dilate. Gaby is still chattering frantically, gasping excuses, and Illya sees Müller smile and shake his head. 

Not for the first time today, he wishes he’d hidden a microphone under her coat collar. His German is good, and he wants to know what she just said to make the man smirk suddenly like that, wants to know why she’s resting a hand on his shoulder. She glances up at him through her lashes, laughs a little, and then gestures to the little café behind them. Ah, so she’s inviting him in for coffee, pastries, a pretty gesture of apology for her stumble earlier. Even though it tastes like acid in his mouth, Illya mutters a begrudging Well done under his breath. 

She loops her arm through Müller’s, keeping step with his short strides as they make their way to the café’s entrance. He holds the door for her, and then they’re inside and Illya’s job is over. Solo has it from here, and even though he constantly calls him a terrible spy, deep down Illya does not doubt the Cowboy’s efficacy in the field. He hunkers down to wait, let his partners do their jobs. 

It does not hurt to check in, though. Slowly, he relaxes his grip on the rifle and hunches over, the chilly fall wind whistling around his ears. It’s been nearly ten minutes since she went in, and nothing’s exploded yet. That always makes him a little nervous. Moving stiffly, he taps the tiny switch in the wire curling behind his ear, waits for the hiss of static as the connection is made. 

“Cowboy?” he asks, low and careful. There’s a moment of silence, and then he can faintly hear the clinking of glasses and the hum of conversation. Ah, it’s working. Good. 

“Peril,” Solo’s voice comes in his ear, irritatingly blasé. “Everything all right up there?”

“Is good,” he says, angling the rifle so that the scope will not reflect the weak sunlight filtering through the clouds overhead. “Gaby?”

He thinks he hears Solo chuckle, but he can’t be sure. 

“She’s fine, Peril,” and yes, there’s definitely a note of amusement there. “I think our target is halfway to being in love, and they haven’t even finished their first cup of _Einspänner_.”

He grunts, unable to help himself. Ridiculous, to be seducing marks over cups of Viennese coffee. He is KGB, trained to kill, maim, extract information by violent force. (Imagining Gaby’s bright smile flashing across the table at another man makes all of those methods suddenly sound very enjoyable.)

“Ahem—Peril?” Solo’s voice crackles through the microphone, and he forces himself to concentrate. They’re not done yet. “I think you might be interested to know that, if my German lip-reading skills are to be trusted, Müller just invited her to have dinner with him tomorrow night.”

His jaw clenches hard enough that he can hear his molars grind together.

“Excellent,” he grits, pretending cool professionalism. “You make sure she is not followed out. I will see you back at safehouse, _da_?”

Solo snickers, and he thinks longingly of bruised ribs and broken noses. 

“Certainly, Peril.”

He taps the switch behind his ear and packs up the rifle with more force than strictly necessary. 

This mission is going to be the death of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...everybody's all doom and gloom (except Solo, bless him), Illya's still miserable, and the enjoyment's only begun! Next chapter is where he gets _really_ angsty--up to this point he's just been a Soviet in love. ;)
> 
> Just For Fun Fact: The Dragunov sniper rifle should be historically accurate (at least, as far as I can tell). In fact, it was Model of the Year in 1963, so it seemed quite logical to me that in 1964(ish), Illya would have a newly issued model and would be using it for U.N.C.L.E. missions. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong!
> 
> Other Just For Fun Fact: Einspänner, which sounds absolutely delicious, is a signature beverage in Viennese coffee houses. It's made with espresso, full or whipped cream, and cocoa powder sprinkled on top. It was apparently the traditional drink of Viennese coach drivers, partly because the cream on top insulated the coffee, thus keeping the drink hot and the drivers' hands warm.


	3. Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya tails Gaby on her first dinner date with Müller, and heroically tries to keep his temper and jealousy in check.
> 
> She's not making it easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all your lovely kudos and comments! They add tremendously to the joy of writing about these incredible characters. 
> 
> Also...bonus points to anybody who can figure out where the chapter titles are coming from. ;)

_Vienna  
Kuryakin_

If hearing about Gaby’s skills was annoying, seeing them firsthand is ten times worse. Solo had insisted that they split up tonight, one at the bar, the other running surveillance in the car, and it was just Illya’s bad luck to get tails when they flipped a coin. (He actually suspects Solo of cheating, but there’s no way to prove it.)

He’s currently hunched over a glass of cheap vodka at the restaurant bar, feeling entirely too large and too Russian for this charming little place with its dark corners and lamplit tables. He received a very unpleasant look from the bartender when he ordered a drink, his accent clear and unmistakable, but at least they served him without further objection. There are too many places west of the Wall where he’s been denied service the second he opens his mouth. 

He tries to make himself smaller, aware of the fact that he is failing miserably, and chances a quick glance over at the table in the far right corner, where Gaby is waiting for Müller to come back from checking their coats. She is beautiful, as always, but tonight there’s something more, a sort of polished gleam that dazzles him every time he dares to look. He wants to think it’s the Chanel he picked out for her, understated in elegant black, but deep down he knows better. It’s _her_ , the sparkle of her eyes, the quick flicker of amusement across her face, the way she holds herself as if waiting for an embrace. She’s irresistible like this (irresistible always, he thinks helplessly), and he’s not surprised that Müller’s already well on his way to becoming a sentimental sap.

And there he is, their dull little clerk, practically trotting across the room in his eagerness to get back to his companion. Gaby _is_ bugged this time around, and he can hear through her microphone the quick tap of Müller’s shoes, the rustle of cheap fabric as he sits and beams at her. 

“What sort of wine do you fancy tonight, _Fräulein_ Schmidt?” he asks, and Illya can tell that he’s trying too hard to sound cultured, urbane. Gaby just giggles and reaches for his hand, brushing the tips of her fingers over his knuckles. 

“Surely _Fräulein_ is too formal,” she coos, and even across the room Illya can see the other man’s nervous swallow. “Call me Eva…please.”

Müller nods, head bobbing comically, and peers at her through his thick glasses. It’s petty, but Illya wonders sardonically how often Müller was teased as a child, small and weak and short-sighted as he is. Nothing much has changed, he thinks. 

Just then the sommelier comes to the table; they order, and, as he leaves, Gaby shifts a little in her chair purposefully. She’s not facing Illya directly, but he can tell from the angle (and from the sudden flush in Müller’s cheeks) that her cleavage is on full display. 

“So,” she murmurs, manicured fingernails drawing idle patterns on the tablecloth, “Karl—I hope you don’t mind me using your first name?” Müller gulps and shakes his head, and he can see the flash of Gaby’s teeth as she smiles. “Karl—tell me what it’s like to be a government official, hmm? It must be so exciting, having all that power and influence.”

This is a bare-faced lie, because Müller’s most exciting task is pushing paper across a desk, but it works nonetheless. The man clears his throat importantly, sits up a little, and launches into one of the most tedious job descriptions Illya’s ever heard. Five minutes later, he’s marveling at Gaby’s unflagging ability to resist a yawn.

“That is simply _fascinating_ ,” she simpers, and Illya fights the urge to roll his eyes. He enjoys her ability to perform, but he doesn’t care much for the coquettish creature she’s playing. He much prefers the real Gaby, the one who wrestled him to the floor in Rome and tormented him with flashes of lace and bare thigh—the Gaby who is strong and capricious and perennially ill-tempered. 

Nearly an hour later, he is worn to the bone, exhausted by Gaby’s charmingly flirtatious banter and Müller’s apparent fascination with the sound of his own voice. At least they are gathering reasonably useful intel, although sorting out the diamonds from the dross is going to be a Herculean task in and of itself.

As he takes a miserly sip of his vodka, there’s a sharp crackle over the wire, and Solo’s voice breaks in, interrupting Müller’s lengthy explanation of what exactly belongs on a Form 8793-J. 

“Having fun yet, Peril?” he enquires, and Illya coughs to cover his snort of derision, pulling his handkerchief out of his coat pocket.

“Cowboy,” he mutters, the linen square pressed to his mouth. “Not a good time to talk.”

Solo chuckles knowingly. “That must mean you’re too busy watching our girl talk her way into Müller’s bed,” he says, and Illya barely manages to suppress his automatic shudder of rage. He stuffs the handkerchief back in his pocket with fingers that are beginning to shake. He cannot think of Müller’s hands on Gaby, curving possessively over her skin, or he will start to throw things and the entire mission will be compromised. 

Solo’s not done, though. “The Chanel is all right on her, but I still favour the Balenciaga,” he inserts brightly. “The neckline is perfect, though. He hasn’t taken his eyes off her since they sat down.”

The implication is clear, and Illya quietly grinds his back teeth as he thinks about gouging out Müller’s wandering eyes. He _knew_ he should have picked another dress, one that went all the way up to her chin. Maybe one that fit like a nun’s habit. Possibly even a Patou.

“Shut up, Cowboy,” he hisses out of the corner of his mouth. “Can’t listen.”

He swears that he can almost hear Solo’s grin through the wire. 

“Oh, I’ve got that covered,” the American assures him. “I’ve been recording the whole conversation. Fascinating, the sorts of things those new microphones pick up on.”

Illya is absolutely positive he does not want to know what that means. 

“ _Прикрой рот_ ,” he snaps, and mercifully, Solo falls silent. After a second, the wire switches over to pick up Gaby’s frequency again. He listens for a moment and then almost wishes he’d let Cowboy keep needling him. The alternative is far, far worse. 

“Oh, Karl, _Liebchen_ ,” she’s murmuring, and the husky undercurrent in her voice sends a jolt of heat straight to his cock. “I would love to go on a stroll. Perhaps down by the river? I hear it’s beautiful, the way the light reflects off the water.”

His eyes flick over the table, and he suddenly notices with thrumming tension that there’s a shoe lying empty just under the drape of the tablecloth, and surely she’s not—she wouldn’t—and then he nearly drops his glass as he realizes that holy shit, she _is_. He can barely see the outline of their legs through the heavy material, but he’s almost positive that she’s rubbing her silk-clad foot slowly, torturously, up and down Müller’s calf. (At least, he desperately hopes she’s stopping there. The idea of her moving any higher makes him want to upend the closest table.)

Müller is clearly overwhelmed by her attentions, by the entire thing, and his voice squeaks as he suggests that he’ll go get their coats so they can leave. He patters off in a daze, and, as soon as he’s through the front entrance, Gaby turns around on the pretext of checking her hair in the reflection from the window. Deliberately, she locks eyes with Illya, just for a second, and he feels the tug of mingled desire and fury in his stomach as she arches an eyebrow at him. She’s _challenging_ him, goddammit, and he’s not sure he can take much more. 

She drops her gaze a second later as Müller scurries back into view, but it’s too late. The damage is already done, and Illya can hardly breathe as he hurriedly pays his tab and slides out the door seconds behind the two of them. His hands are trembling as he looks over his shoulder, mapping which way they’re going before he opens the door of the nondescript black car. 

Solo’s familiar grin greets him. 

_“A walk in the moonlight, hmm?”_ he mimics, high-pitched and breathy. _“Oh, Karl, that’s so romantic.”_

Illya’s snarl reverberates through the small space. 

“You push your luck, Cowboy,” he says roughly, and reaches for the gearshift. “I will drive. You can tail on foot.”

His tone leaves little room for argument, but Solo is wearing the perverse sort of expression that he means he’s not going to go quietly. 

“Thought you might need a little fresh air—cool down a bit,” he says, sly and twinkling, and Illya thinks longingly about bouncing his perfectly groomed head off the window. 

“Get out,” he says abruptly and fires up the engine. “You will lose them if you do not hurry.”

Solo raises an eyebrow, but reaches for the door handle anyway. 

“Don’t forget to turn up the volume,” he deadpans, and then he’s out and strolling away into the chill night air. Illya pulls onto the nearly deserted avenue and follows at a leisurely pace, parking when Solo mutters that they’ve reached their destination. Better for the Cowboy to be tailing tonight, anyway. Large Russians tend to attract unwanted attention in this part of town. 

He tries his best to ignore Gaby’s murmurs and Müller’s stilted responses playing over the receiver behind him and reaches down to pull a pack of cigarettes out of the glove box. They’re Gauloises, so they must be hers—Solo rarely smokes, but when he does, he insists on American tobacco. Window cracked, he strikes a match from the book in his breast pocket and lights up, lets the unfamiliar taste linger on his tongue. It reminds him of her, strong and dark, unfiltered, no unnecessary sweetness. 

He smokes through half the pack, waiting there, letting the blue tendrils drift lazily through the cracked window until he hears Solo’s sharp tap on the other side. She must be finished, he thinks; he’s been forcefully tuning out the sound of her voice behind him for the past half-hour, refusing to listen while she beguiles another man. If she needs him, he’ll hear it in the tone, the urgency. (He always knows when she needs him.) 

Solo slides into the passenger seat, choking and waving a hand in front of his face. 

“My God, Peril, did you try to set something on fire?” he manages through the haze. Illya merely shakes his head and gestures toward the street ahead.

“Which way?” he asks. 

Solo is still coughing, but nevertheless points to the right. “She’s taking a cab back to the safehouse,” he pants. “She…sent Müller home for the night. It went well, though. He’s definitely—” cough “—enamoured.”

Illya makes a sharp right turn and takes deliberate pleasure in the way that Solo’s knuckles tighten on the dashboard.

“I would not know,” he says, dispassionately. “Was not listening.”

His partner’s glance speaks volumes. 

“Really.” Solo’s voice is ripe with skepticism. “Just sitting here, smoking Gaby’s cigarettes, quietly at peace with the world?”

Illya nods, and hopes it’s believable. He doesn’t want to rehash the whole miserable evening—doesn’t want to feel again the unwanted pull of envy in his chest, wondering what it would be like to walk arm in arm with Gaby beside the glistening water, feel her warmth pressed against his side, make up ridiculous stories about Soviet architects just to hear her laugh. Doesn’t want to think of what it would be like to hold her close against the bite of the night air, his arms steady, warding off the cold, how it would feel to bend down, press his lips to her hair. Doesn’t want to imagine what might happen if she raised her face to his, invited him to kiss elsewhere. It is bad enough that Müller, the Austrian swine, has had the chance to do all of this and more. He doesn’t want to torment himself with the impossible. 

He doesn’t look at Solo again until they reach the safehouse. He’s on the verge of opening the door and getting out (getting away) when he feels something brush against his sleeve. Solo is twisted around, fiddling with the recording equipment, but his eyes shift to meet Illya’s with an alarming degree of sympathy shining in the glittering blue depths. 

“Don’t lose heart, Peril,” he says, and beneath the teasing note there’s a current of genuine affection. “We’ll have what we need soon enough.”

Illya feels his ears turn red, and he coughs abruptly as he scrambles out. This sort of weakness is unacceptable, and therefore he must not accept sympathy for it. He will simply be more guarded, more careful about letting Solo see the depths to which he has fallen. It will not be so hard. 

But as he trudges up the sidewalk to the little house, he feels a tightness in his chest, a weighted sense of misery. 

If this mission is to be the death of him, the end is not coming soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
>  _Прикрой рот_ \- close your mouth, shut up
> 
> Hope Illya's heightened misery was to your liking! For those of you who worry for him, never fear...the next chapter involves a bit of table-turning for Illya and Gaby. For now, please enjoy the spectacle of a very large Russian being very much in hopeless love. :)


End file.
